White Lies and Painted Faces
by Shadowdrake Magi
Summary: Baram's life is a patchwork of lies. [Character study and expansion of an idea.]
1. White Lies

His name isn't really Baram. He wasn't born and raised in Zozo, nor was he once a citizen of Jidoor. He didn't leave to steal great treasures from old ruins or escape his overbearing family in exchange for his freedom. Poker and Blackjack were never his favorites, no matter how often he played and won. The prettily patterned bandana wound around his forehead isn't an old gift from a former sweetheart, while the dark patch covering his right eye hides no vicious scar, white cataracts or hollow socket.

He was an orphan of Vector and conscripted at fourteen years old, forced to become a scavenging outlaw to avoid a monstrous fate. His favorite game is chess, but he hasn't had a chance to play ever since he left. The bandana he bought himself to hide the distinctive scar curved over his brow, and on occasion he swaps his eyepatch around to give the covered eye some air. No one ever notices.

From childhood to adolescence to adulthood, he's been taught and retaught that the truth brings him nothing but pain. He holds his secrets close, a miserly man hoarding his gems of misfortunes, and hopes his true past is never uncovered and his real name never spoken again.


	2. Painted Faces

The first time he tried makeup, he was eight. He tried to eat it.

The lipstick was bright, bright red, like a sweet or a juicy apple. Surely it would taste as good, that must be why the caretaker always had it smeared on her lips, right? And he was so hungry. She wouldn't miss a bite.

But she did. She found him as he tried to wash off the red stains around his mouth and dragged him to her room. There, she scolded him, called him horribly ungrateful, and told him over and over that it was bad to lie and steal. He wanted to ask her how he could get food otherwise but she never even paused to give him a chance to explain. Finally he shouted in frustration that her lipstick tasted awful anyway. For that she slapped him so hard he fell and cracked his forehead on her fancy dresser. It left a red stain on the wood and a dense white scar on his head.

There were never any cookies.

The second time he tried makeup, he was fourteen. A fellow military kid pointed out his scar and the others crowded around him, agreeing that it looked weird but cool. Proud, he claimed he got it in a fight rather than tell the pathetic truth, at least until another conscript from the same orphanage he was raised in laughed and revealed his secret. His pride turned to shame as the others began to tease and jeer, and he slunk away to lick at reopened wounds.

A sweet and delicate girl, blonde and blue-eyed, later found him moping in the corner of a half-forgotten playground, and managed to pry enough information out of him that she decided what he needed was something to cover up the ugly blemish. She brought him home and taught him how to hide his shame in skin-colored creams and when she was done, she patted his cheek and told him not to cry-he looked much better with a smile on his face.

When he returned the next day her parents discovered he was a soldier and demanded he leave. Their daughter made no protests, refusing to meet his eyes. He hid his humiliation with a placating smile and never returned.

The third time he tried makeup, he was twenty. It was a shock when the first wanted posters appeared. He expected the Empire to completely hide the fact of his desertion, and although the posters only had a picture and a description, his well-known features would still be evident to any soldier who came across one. Makeup smudged too easily to hide his features; if his rough white scar were revealed in the wrong place he'd be brought back in an instant, possibly-probably-with charges of treason.

So he went into an old run-down shop and selected a patterned bandana, one that would hopefully help mask his scar even if it slipped a bit. Then, just for good measure, he bought an eyepatch too and found that the disguises fit him surprisingly well, and left a bribe to get the owner to keep his mouth shut.

Despite that, it wasn't long before he found he had to run in earnest, the Empire and its bloodhounds already on his trail.


	3. Masks

He knew where the army would look for deserters first. He also knew how to lie, cheat and steal. So he avoided the first and did much of the rest as he fled Vector, his old lives continuing to cling to him like powder-white ghosts. He went through names as fast as a circus clown went through dyes and paints, but none stuck to him properly, and for a while he went without an identity.

Then he met Clyde. Clyde, who played Poker with his hand displayed on his face, who was a scrawny thing yet fought back against being cheated with an earnest nervousness, who would have been devoured by the pack of outlaw wolves by the end of the day if he hadn't barred them with a falsely pleasant smile.

They tried to devour him too, but military training never left a man; it wasn't long before they gave up to nurse their wounds over ale and look for easier prey.

"Th-Thanks. What's your name?"

He hesitates. "Baram," he answers with a grin that he doesn't actually feel. Clyde smiles back, the expression far more real than any of his own.

The name stuck.

* * *

Baram thought he escaped the Empire and its monsters, but they followed him into his nightmares. They screech and gurgle and thrash, magic leaking out of them like blood or ichor, and sometimes on particularly bad nights they reach out for him with the arms of the dead and dying. No matter how quickly he wakes it's never soon enough.

Baram's ears still ring with wordless screams and tortured cries. He shudders and drinks his coffee to hide his sleep-deprived state. As Clyde walks in, he wonders if the kid has any horrors of his own. (Clyde may only be a few years younger, but he really does resemble a kid at times.)

Instantly he covers up his melancholy with a smile as Clyde sits beside him and hands him a rectangle of paper. Confused, Baram takes it and skims the article. He halts at the sight of a seven-digit number.

One million gil.

He stares. Rubs his eye. Stares again.

One. Million. Gil.

With that kind of money he could go anywhere he wanted, somewhere far away where the Empire could never find him, and finally stop running.

Clyde looks at him expectantly. His poker face is better but he still shows all his emotions in his eyes, including the current earnestness of a puppy dearly wanting to be praised.

"Good job," Baram says numbly, and he barely registers the delighted widening of Clyde's eyes. '_Kid really needs to train himself out of that_,' part of him thinks. The rest of his brain is in full tactician mode, already outlining a plan for what's sure to be the heist of the century.


	4. Uncovered

He can't believe it. They did it. They really did it.

One million gil.

A wildly excited laugh bursts out of Baram despite his burning legs and lungs. Clyde's right behind him with the rest of the loot, but Baram can hear him start laughing breathlessly too.

"We need to change our name," Baram says suddenly. He blinks and slows his pace, not sure where the words came from.

Clyde nearly crashes into him. "Our name?"

The thrill of a plan successfully executed still runs in his veins. For the first time in a long while he feels honestly, truly happy, and is suddenly reluctant to leave this life behind. Slowly, a new idea churns itself up in his mind. "Yeah, we need something more appropriate." Something that will fit the fame soon to follow them in their outlaw life and their skill in evading their pursuers.

"Like what?"

Baram tilts his head back, letting a rare genuine grin cross his face. "Shadow," he says almost to himself. Then he glances at Clyde. "Not bad, huh?"

"Shadow," Clyde echoes. "The train robbers of the century." His eyes brighten with enthusiasm and a matching grin appears on his face.

* * *

He can't believe it. They were close. So, so close.

One million gil wasn't enough. Or maybe it was too much. Maybe they shouldn't have jumped.

Baram swears he tasted freedom during the fall, the taste of clean air free from choking smog or chalky powder. Now all he tastes is iron.

And he's afraid. He knows that he's showing his fear on his face, but he can't smile anymore. It hurts too much to smile.

There's red all over him, but his eyes are refusing to focus. He can't feel his legs, and his mind is foggy and clouded.

Is all this his blood?

"Everything'll be fine," Clyde gasps. As confused as his mind is, Baram knows that's not true. He never meant for this to happen. "Save your strength. We're almost to a town." No. There's no saving him. And the Imperials, they're too close.

He _is_ afraid of death, but he knows it's infinitely preferable to what the Empire has planned for him.

His bandana's slipping. He lost the eyepatch somewhere along the way, but the blood on his face probably makes up for it.

He wants to die before he can be brought back to those... those _monsters_, but he's not bleeding fast enough.

With his uncovered eyes, he looks up at Clyde. The kid still hasn't left yet. "Get going!" he shouts. Or tries to, anyway. The liquid in his mouth's not making it easy to talk. Clyde tries to lift him but he growls and shakes his head, aware that he'd just slow the kid down. Finally Clyde puts him down and reluctantly begins to step away.

And the Empire's still coming for both of them. His addled mind pauses, realizes he's forgot something. He hopes dearly that the kid doesn't let him down (even though he never killed anyone and could barely ever hunt). "Clyde," he gasps, "before you go... take your knife, and kill me."

"What?! I... I can't!" Clyde stares at him with wide-eyed shock, horror and some other things he can't make out, but there's no flash of steel, no sensation of a blade cutting through him. He feels his heart sink.

"Please. If they catch me, they'll torture me." And worse. "Do this one last favor. Please."

Clyde shakes his head, his arm's shaking too, why isn't he dead yet? The blood loss must be making him delirious. It looks like Clyde is getting smaller, or farther away-

No.

No, no, '_no no no you can't leave me here, not alive, don't leave me, come back_,' "Come back...you coward!"

Clyde's gone. He gasps weakly for air on instinct, and a minute or an eternity later, he can't tell which, he hears the sound of wood hitting dirt, boats landing on the riverbank.

"Well," says a familiar voice, _General Leo's_ voice, "this is quite a surprise. Get this man some potions and clean him up. The Emperor will want to talk to this one face to face."

Through the crust of blood on his eyes, he can just barely see the other general looking down at him calmly.

"I never expected to meet you here, General Kefka."

Kefka shuts his eyes. His nightmares have caught up to him.


End file.
